


Mon Charmant

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Piano, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:58:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine's practicing for an upcoming piano competition; Kurt helps him interpret his program in a new way. <b><a href="http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/39197573427/fic-mon-charmant">Reblog on Tumblr!</a></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon Charmant

**Author's Note:**

> Each section links to the piece that Blaine is playing for the duration. Please listen to them as you read! Credit goes to [substantialityou](http://substantialityou.tumblr.com) for the idea, which was inspired in turn by [Hysterical Literature](http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/39144227023/substantialityou-hysterical-literature).

**[i. johann sebastian bach: prelude no. 6 in d minor, bwv 851](http://www.youtuberepeat.com/watch?v=tQJIuM1jmRY) **

Kurt feels his heart stutter with the piece, each quick note thrumming against his sternum, his heart racing to pick up the pace and keep the time. A melody seeps through Kurt’s skin where his forearm rests on the side of the Steinway, and the tempo hastens — maybe just in his head, or maybe it’s deliberate — stilling his breath as he drops his lips down to press against his knuckles, the line of his teeth digging into his skin.

The cover is closed on the grand piano today as Blaine’s fingers skim over the keys, and Kurt feels as frustrated as the instrument, notes slightly muffled and not as crisp as they’re meant to be.

“You’re playing Glenn Gould’s interpretation.”

In answer, Blaine hums with the melody, frustratingly smooth in spite of the hop and skip of notes played disparate with staccato. Gould was a contrary man, Kurt thinks. Also a genius.

An errant strand shakes free from Blaine’s curls, teasing along his hairline. As though aware, Blaine smiles.

“I tried that once. The look on my teacher’s face made it seem as though I’d committed some sort of crime,” Kurt muses, breath short and words clipped as he tries to weave them neatly into the music. He can’t. There’s a reason why no one speaks during a concert.

But this is only _practice_.

“She said that if I wanted to break tradition, the least I could do was offer my own take on the piece, instead of mimicking a visionary,” he adds.

After a beat, Kurt laughs. “She might have been right.”

Tilting his head in time with the music, Blaine’s fingers strike more sharply still, light and charming — as though playing with fire, teeth flashing white with a smile. “ _Inspired_ by Gould, but I think I’m straying a bit today, Kurt,” he says, lips pursed.

“For me?” Teasing, Kurt shifts, chin weighing heavy against the center of his hand. It’s sure to leave a print on the piano, but Kurt doesn’t mind and Blaine doesn’t stop him.

Blaine’s brow furrows and he shakes his head, the motion frenetic with the broken chords leading him lower through the octaves. “Of course not,” he says, nodding towards the piano. “For _her_.”

Kurt raises a brow. Slides off his seat, lips quirking in a sudden grin when Blaine’s pace picks up, unintentional, thankfully masked under the tension of the piece but still enough to send his own heart through a small, momentary, dizzying lurch. His fingers brush up along the crease of Blaine’s slacks, freshly ironed, until they meet his knee. He watches as Blaine’s mouth thins with a small dart of pink over soft lips.

“What are you doing?” Blaine asks, eyes trained forward.

“Pulling focus.”

“My _parents_ are upstairs,” Blaine hisses, throat bobbing with a thick swallow, the pace of his fingers fast and slow and as uneven as the pounding of Kurt’s pulse in his ears.

“Just keep playing,” murmurs Kurt, hands carefully smoothing over Blaine’s inner thighs, the fabric even and heated under the brush of his palms. “And don’t screw up.”

He hears Blaine draw a breath as the piece comes to a pause.

**[ii. johann sebastian bach: fugue no. 6 in d minor, bwv 851](http://www.youtuberepeat.com/watch?v=kGR5GNBdH-Q) **

There are three voices in Bach’s sixth fugue. Soprano, tenor, and bass. It’s the soprano that enters first, lilting even in its opening notes; Blaine makes sure to pay special attention to its melody, the brightest of all three and the most easily focused on. It’s playful in this particular piece, teasing and changing seamlessly from minor to major keys — as fickle as it is beautiful, and he can’t help the brief flicker of his gaze down towards Kurt at the thought.

Blaine glances back up right as Kurt starts to smile.

It isn’t often that Blaine finds an opportunity to practice the piano with Kurt in the room. His parents would have Blaine believe that the presence of any other person during practice is a detriment to his play, a distraction from the fervor of the music, liable to lead to mistakes and an inconstant tempo that shakes the listener from their reverie.

But competition season quickly arrives with the melting snow, and whatever time Blaine doesn’t devote to the glee club is spent in the parlor, toiling over arpeggios and the slow, even dip of his wrist through the measures.

Personally, Blaine thinks that he’s never more inspired than when Kurt sits by his side, eyes bright and attention, flecks of blue like ice to his skin as Blaine focuses on meting out his emotions through his fingertips.

This might be the first time he sees what his parents mean by _distraction_.

Kurt spends the first few lines simply breathing, the rise and fall of his shoulder blades visible even in the periphery of Blaine’s vision. The air is hot as it brushes against Blaine’s thighs, sending his pulse racing, even though Kurt’s barely done so much as touch Blaine at all — it’s the anticipation that Kurt draws out, spreading over Blaine’s skin like searing ice.

He feels the slow circle of thumbs along his in-seam; by the fourteenth measure, Kurt’s fingers pinch at the zipper of Blaine’s slacks and tug, his movement sharp, although the sound barely registers next to the pull.

Focusing on the outline of his knuckles and the contrast of skin against ebony, Blaine raises his right wrist, pulling the soprano’s third line to an even close.

He slips on the very next measure, jaw clenching as Kurt palms him through the fabric.

The piano affords Blaine a type of power that his voice cannot. With two hands, he can bring together multiple voices, harmonizing or contrasting at will, one smooth as the other stutters. One high; the other, low. As easily abused as the keys are, helpless under the pounding of keys and frenzied, frenetic trickle of arpeggios, the piano is also a fickle instrument — punishing every lack of focus with a missed note, a clashing pair.

Blaine keeps on missing the notes and he swears under his breath, hissing as Kurt teases with skin against skin, indulging in a slow pull of Blaine’s cock.

Before he knows it, a story slips out from between the bars. The soprano, as mischievous and unpredictable as the trace of Kurt’s tongue along the underside of Blaine’s cock. The tenor, following each rise and fall of the soprano’s melody, stifled breath caught on the curve of Blaine’s lips as he rolls his hips, chasing after the heat of Kurt’s mouth. And the bass, the bass underneath it all, steady and low like the thundering beat of Blaine’s chest.

Bach didn’t mark this piece with a tempo, but Blaine finds it nonetheless — _allegro_. Fast, faster, held back with a sharp bite against his tongue.

He's faintly conscious of the pattern of his mistakes, every fourth beat coming slightly too quickly, the entire piece following the quick pace of Kurt’s breaths, now cool against damp skin. Blaine draws back from the mistake, mind distant as he focuses on correcting himself, clicking his tongue to time as Kurt presses his lips in a soft line of kisses up the side of Blaine’s cock.

Once he reaches the last two lines, Blaine throws greater caution to the wind, nerves nearly shaking him out of his skin as he races towards the close, then slows in time for the last seven notes, adding an extra trill at the end.

“That’s not in the sheet music,” observes Kurt, pulling back with his lips wet and a high flush on his cheeks. Blaine cards his fingers through Kurt’s hair, breaking the waves set by hairspray and earning himself a pointed, impatient look.

“Please?” whispers Blaine, swiping a thumb against the corner of Kurt’s mouth.

“ _No._ Keep playing.”

**[iii. louis moreau gottschalk: o ma charmante, épargnez-moi, op. 44](http://www.youtuberepeat.com/watch?v=NQk9PGb5HDg) **

Shifting to find the softest patch of ground, Kurt positions himself back between Blaine’s legs with a sigh. He enjoys watching Blaine settle into a piece, the process taking place long before the first note sounds, evident in the slight drop of his shoulders and broadening of his chest. Taking a breath fast, never knowing when the next will arrive.

“My second piece,” murmurs Blaine, the smile showing in the corners of his eyes, “is Louis Moreau Gottschalk’s ‘O ma charmante, épargnez-moi.’”

“‘Mon charmant’ would be more appropriate,” says Kurt, pressing a kiss to the head of Blaine’s cock, glancing up in time to catch a flutter of lashes and the tilt of Blaine’s hips, silencing Kurt.

“Under that logic, we’d have to change the title of ‘Für Elise’ whenever I play it for you.” Blaine arches a brow, a shallow inhale pulling between his teeth as he pushes himself further past Kurt’s lips, shivering when Kurt lets out a small hum of amusement. “Sadly, ‘Für Kurt’ doesn’t have the same ring.”

Smacking Blaine sharply on the thigh, Kurt sinks his mouth further over Blaine, stomach twisting pleasantly when Blaine lets out a low, gravelly groan, fingers rushing to find the keys and covering the sound of his voice with the opening chords.

From where he’s kneeling underneath the piano, the music seems to surround Kurt from all sides; the notes pass through the soundboard from above, loud and resonant, but also course through Blaine’s body and through to Kurt’s fingertips. Letting himself sink into the slow, indulgent melody, Kurt takes his time with Blaine, left hand reaching around to knead at the full, firm curve of Blaine’s ass, pulling him closer. His nose presses against the coarse hair that sweeps down from Blaine’s navel whenever Kurt takes Blaine in, and through the intake of breath, the slight tickle that threatens to give way to laughter, Kurt finds himself overwhelmed by the sheer scent of Blaine. Heady, strong, just a hint of cinnamon — a lingering hold on the winter months just gone by.

He feels Blaine’s muscles shifting under his arm; in lieu of the usual moans, Blaine seizes whenever Kurt sinks down just right, and it’s that movement that Kurt starts to chase after in a way that he’s not sure he ever has before, breathing in deeply through his nose as his right hand sweeps along the cut of Blaine’s hip, drawn down and across in a perfect v. The skin there is warm, heated, damp with Kurt’s caught breath, and he traces upward with his fingertips, nudging aside Blaine’s loosened waistband to trace through the rough smattering of hair and further up still. Smooth cotton runs cool over the back of Kurt’s hand, pursed over Kurt’s knuckles as he travels further up still.

More than anything, Kurt wants to touch _everything_ , wants to find the source of the music that trilled by his ears. Slipping across Blaine’s chest, Kurt’s thumb circles around Blaine’s nipple, then presses down — not a single extra sound slips out of Blaine, but Kurt can feel the weight on his tongue suddenly twitching, and he hollows his cheeks, sucking lightly. He can taste, hear, smell, see — just, the _touch_.

Leaning back quickly, Kurt’s hand closes softly around Blaine’s cock, pulling back smooth, close, enough to feel Blaine’s racing pulse against the center of his palm. With a sweep of his thumb over the head of Blaine’s cock, Kurt leans in again to the shadow that falls between Blaine’s thigh and his erection, dipping over, sucking at the soft skin and along the line of Blaine’s perineum.

“K- _Kurt_.”

Blaine’s hands trip over the keys, catching on black and landing on white, and his knees jolt. Soothingly, Kurt runs his left hand over Blaine’s thigh, rhythmic until he feels the tension start to ease away.

Chancing a glance upward, his gaze falls on the curve of Blaine’s neck, exposed and barely glowing underneath the warm light. Perspiration clings to his temple as Blaine’s chest heaves, lips agape, and he looks _wrecked_ in spite of the careful control that has his fingers caressing the keys still. Muscle memory, Kurt supposes, right hand still steadily jerking Blaine as he pulls his left forward again, carefully releasing buttons from their restraint, starting at the bottom. Blaine’s abdomen clenches under the touch.

But Kurt abandons that plan halfway through, nudging at the fabric with his fingertips before groping blindly to the side, hooking his hand over the crook of Blaine’s elbow and weighing down as he traces along to Blaine’s wrist.

He lets the weight hang there, feeling the rise and fall of the melody as easily as Blaine’s breathing. When Blaine’s breath catches for the third time, Kurt pulls away, right hand squeezing at the base of Blaine’s cock as Kurt rests his cheek against Blaine’s thigh. The treble chords are softer now, bright like distant rays over rolling clouds, and maybe this is Blaine’s plan, lulling them to security.

With a drop of his hand from Blaine’s wrist, Kurt smooths both palms over the tops of Blaine’s thighs, pressing deep against the muscle and massaging through the end of the song.

Casting a dark look up at Blaine, the sight of flushed cheeks and downturned lashes sends desire shooting straight to the base of Kurt’s spine, a lingering heat.

“Keep playing,” he murmurs, shifting with the gentle clink of a belt and hiss of a zipper, sighing as he reaches down into his jeans and wraps a hand around himself, muffling a moan against Blaine’s inner thigh.

When Kurt leans in next, it’s to run the tip of his tongue along the slit of Blaine’s cock, one hand still wrapped around himself and laughter easily spilling over as Blaine gasps and does his best to thrust forward, cock bobbing by the hollow of Kurt’s cheek instead.

**[iv. frédéric chopin: étude in c-sharp minor, op. 10, no. 4](http://www.youtuberepeat.com/watch?v=lQVR7h9CMqc) **

The keys run away with him. It’s the only way Blaine can think of to try and describe how desperately he clings to the last piece in tonight’s program, a spilling arpeggio making way for the thunderclap of bass chords as his fingers shake, hardly any reliable strength between the ten of them.

He isn’t supposed to be playing this way, leaning his weight into the keys to achieve a louder sound. It’s clumsy, it’s inelegant, uncontrollable as he strikes the wrong keys and discordant notes. Quick and precise are beyond him as Kurt wraps Blaine’s cock in impossibly tight heat with the flat of his tongue, sucking in long, tantalizing drags that send a shudder coursing through Blaine’s body, trickling down from his chest and snaking around until both stomach and spine are caught in the same thread of desire. Kurt has it wrapped well around his finger, and he makes good use of the time, tongue swirling around Blaine’s cock until Blaine drags out a random chord in the middle of the piece, choking on his own breath as he hides his face in the crook of his elbow, shoulders shaking with the strain.

Kurt, irascibly adorable as he is, decides that it's the perfect time to start humming again, sinking with a low growl until Blaine feels the tip of his cock brushing against the back of Kurt’s throat, the tight squeeze sending sparks through his vision. It takes everything in his power to keep from thrusting direction into the heat, let alone try to continue playing, and Blaine bites violently down on his lower lip as a slow, deep moan slips free.

With a gasp, Blaine pulls himself upright again, vision swimming as he tries to remember where he is in the piece — he can’t remember, he can’t — maybe the second page, but it’s too hard to start from, so he skips ahead to the next break and — again, he throws his weight behind the chords, back hunched as his shoulders lurch forward.

Even as he barely manages to hold to the right notes, fingers tapping one, two many times against the keys as he scales up and down the octaves, Blaine can’t find the right time. His heart aches, pulse hastening with each beat; Kurt sinks down, pausing whenever he requires a breath; there’s a telltale, uneven rustle of fabric that has Blaine glancing down when he shouldn’t.

And he _really_ shouldn’t.

Because the rustling comes from Kurt’s shirt, wrinkled and shifting over his shoulder as Kurt palms at his erection, slow circles at double the time of his breaths, eyes squeezing shut and muscles tensing when sensation washes over him. Kurt’s hair drapes lightly over his forehead, still relaxed from Blaine’s earlier touch, and a couple of strands are plastered against pale skin, damp from the effort.

Kurt’s in the process of being undone as surely as Blaine’s fingers still stumble their way towards the conclusion, and Blaine can’t tear his eyes away.

He gasps suddenly when Kurt’s eyes glance up, blue fixed on amber as Kurt takes a strikingly hard draw, cheeks hollowing out as he sucks harder, head bobbing faster, and as pleasure sparks up Blaine’s spine, he finds himself forced to slam a foot down on the pedal simply to keep his toes from curling.

The notes crash into one another, sound muddied as the pedal frees the vibration of the strings, hitting Blaine squarely in the chest.

“K-Kurt,” he stutters, unable to hear his own voice over the frenzied fall of his fingers, the wet glide of Kurt’s rosy lips along his cock.

“ _Kurt_.”

Blaine hears himself that time, struggling to keep his eyes open just the barest sliver as his heart leaps to his throat, terrified of his voice carrying, wondering how much longer their luck can run as he continues to spill clumsily through the piece.

As though forgetting his place, Kurt moans around his cock, shoulders rolling and the heel of one palm driven to the ground with a dull thud as Kurt wraps the other arm around Blaine’s ass, pushing him close.

Lips parted in a noiseless shout, Blaine’s hands suddenly fist, slamming down on the edge of the keys, the sound reverberating through his body.

The pedal drowns the mistake out after a second.

“Fuck,” Blaine noiselessly mouths, jaw slack as his shoulders pull higher, tense around his neck. He feels his entire body tightening, closing down around the sheer pleasure like a vice, and only when his fingers climb back onto the keys does Blaine slowly allow himself to relent, as though relaxing his fingers one by one while Kurt continues to push swollen lips over his cock. Closing his eyes, he sees pink and orange painted across his vision, feels himself bathed in warm light — but moreso than that, he hears Kurt’s harsh panting, Kurt’s high whimper weaving through the music and deeply felt in every inch of his skin.

Kurt clutches suddenly at Blaine’s knee, gripping it for balance, and sinks just enough. _Just_ enough.

Eyes suddenly wide, Blaine inhales sharply, fighting his way through the final runs of the piece, fingers skimming as though across water, and he has just enough presence of mind to lift his foot off the pedal in time for the final two chords. He pounds into them with a shake of his head, errant curls freed by the movement as Blaine scrambles to hook the middle pedal of the piano down.

As soon as he feels the click of the pedal into place, Blaine’s fingers fly away from the keys and weave into Kurt’s hair, tugging sharply even as Kurt gasps in surprise.

“Gonna come,” he rasps, voice inexplicably hoarse and thin.

But Kurt doesn’t pull away, instead digging his nails into Blaine’s thighs, anchoring him in place — Blaine needs it, he _needs_ it, he still feels himself about to shake out of his skin — as Blaine caves forward, breath trapped in his throat as the world shatters around him.

“ _Kurt_ ,” Blaine gasps, hardly above a whisper. Throwing his head back, his lips move wordlessly as he rides out his orgasm, feeling a tremor pass over his skin, pleasure coursing until it fades into a soft murmur.

Just like the last lingering note of the étude.

When he opens his eyes again, hands trembling as they cling to Kurt’s shoulders, it’s in response to a slight tug to his blazer. Blearily, Blaine smiles as he watches Kurt tug the handkerchief out from his suit pocket, wiping both of them clean. He’s just about to brush the pad of his thumb down Kurt’s cheek when Blaine watches his boyfriend glance up with a thoughtful look.

“What is it, Kurt?”

Pursing his lips, Kurt sinks back down on the floor, resting the point of his chin atop Blaine’s knee.

“You know, I think that may have been my favorite interpretation of these pieces yet.”

Dissolving into a breathless laugh, Blaine runs both of his hands down Kurt’s jawline, gently tugging him back up to my knees. “You know, I’m not sure if my teacher would agree,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Kurt’s lips.

Kurt’s breath fans hot against Blaine’s skin. “Maybe you should be studying under _me_ instead.”

“Is that a challenge?”


End file.
